


A Ride in a Van

by schifaroo



Series: Call Me Sir [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Barebacking, Blindfolds, Cock Rings, Consensual Non-Consent, Dom Eliot Waugh, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Handcuffs, Impact Play, Kidnapping, Kink Negotiation, M/M, No beta we post like men, Obedience, Objectification, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punishment, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Riding Crops, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Magic, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schifaroo/pseuds/schifaroo
Summary: The feeling of knowing his obedience was about to be rewarded sent an electric jolt through his entire body.—In which Quentin asks for a particular fantasy to be fulfilled and Eliot exceeds expectations.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Call Me Sir [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087397
Comments: 14
Kudos: 110





	A Ride in a Van

**Author's Note:**

> Please, mind the tags. 
> 
> First time publishing smut, so be gentle with me. ;)

They’d been working towards the scene for weeks, and Eliot had full green lights to start whenever he wanted. Initiation was Eliot’s part; Quentin’s part was to be patient. 

Patience in this instance consisted of a lot of things. He was to attend all his classes and do all his homework as routine. Every night, instead of following Eliot to bed, Quentin was to sleep alone in his own room for the first time in months. He wasn’t to bring it up in conversation; he certainly wasn’t allowed to ask when or any other details that they’d agreed were for Eliot to know and him to find out. Most importantly—perhaps most challenging, but also most tantalizing, most exhilarating, most constantly-reminding-him-why-he’d-asked-for-it—he was supposed to keep himself reasonably close to _ready_ for whenever it would happen. 

Quentin kept to the rules dutifully and precisely, and he waited for Eliot to make the first move. 

* * *

It was early afternoon, and Quentin was focused on his homework in a back corner of the library. 

A firm, invisible hand covered his mouth, and Quentin’s heart instantly jumped to his throat. 

“Don’t make a sound,” a voice whispered into his ear, breath hot, “Listen closely. You’re going to pack your things. You’re going to come with me, and you’re going to keep quiet about it. Nod if you understand.”

Quentin nodded, and swallowed hard, trying to think clearly. He’d never imagined himself in this situation. He grasped at his memories for whatever battle magic he could think of—

“I’ve got a whole slew of spells waiting to be unleashed, so if you try anything it’s going to cost you. Move. Now.”

All he could think to do was obey the invisible man’s command. His pulse was pounding in his ears. He could hear him still, even though the man was no longer touching him: close behind his chair, breathing hard—too hard to be unintentional. He was doing it to remind Quentin that he was there; that he was watching closely for Quentin to make a wrong move. The thought sent a chill through his blood.

Quentin started to stand as he slid his last pen into his bag when two strong hands gripped his shoulders and forced him back down into the chair. 

“I didn’t tell you to get up,” the drawl in the voice mocked him. Quentin could picture a cold smirk behind the words. A phantom hand brushed through his hair and curled it behind his ear. He could have sworn he felt teeth graze against his racing pulse. 

“You’re not to talk to anyone,” the voice was suddenly on his other side, close to his cheekbone, the disorientation made his head spin. “No one at all. I’m going to be right beside you; don’t think you can get away. Nod if you understand me.”

Quentin nodded. He clenched his hands into fists to keep himself from trembling. He felt he should be doing something—fighting back, defending himself, pushing away—but all he could think was to obey the command of the voice beside him.

“We’re walking to the edge of the woods behind the Cottage. Let’s go.”

The invisible man kept a tight grip on his elbow the whole way out the library, across the lawn, towards the Cottage. There weren’t too many people out; most students would still be in classes. The few people that were milling around were mostly staring at books in their laps or practicing their spell work.

“You see that? No one even notices. No one can see me. No one is even paying you enough attention to help you even if you tried.”

The voice was right. He was unremarkable, not worth anyone’s attention. No one would notice if he was gone. The thought sent a new wave of turbulent sensations through his chest.

“Quentin!” It was Margo, she was coming up behind them. He could stop; he could turn around; Margo could help—

“What did I tell you?” the whisper came and a hand pushed against his back to keep moving, “Don’t speak to anyone; keep walking.”

“Quentin, you asshole, stop! I’m talking to you.”

He could hear her heels clicking quickly as she caught up to them. 

“Don’t say a word.” the man spun him around to face Margo and slid up right behind him. Every line of his back tensed as the man pressed against his frame, holding his biceps firmly. The rise and fall of his chest was steady against Quentin’s back; his breath bearing down on him; there wasn’t a part of him that couldn’t feel his captor’s invisible control.

Quentin’s heart raced, trying to decide how to react. He wasn’t sure if he was endangering Margo; he wasn’t sure how he could signal her for help; he wasn’t sure if—

“Quentin, I’ve been looking for you all over,” Margo looked at him defiantly, red lips in an exaggerated pout, “Where the hell have you been?”

The grip on his arms tightened. _Don’t say a word._

Quentin raised his eyebrows at her and shrugged.

“Fine, whatever but mysterious really doesn’t suit your whole abandoned-puppy-dog thing. I need your help. C’mon.” Margo turned on her heel and started marching back toward the library. She turned back to see if he was following, “Coldwater!”

He gave her a weak smile. 

“I’m waiting,” she arched an eyebrow. He’d seen her verbally macerate first years (and Todd) over less. 

“Margo, I can’t—” the words slipped out before he could stop them. He heard a sharp intake of breath—an _angry_ intake of breath.

“Why not?”

“Um. I just—I can’t—okay? I’m—I can’t.” If the tightening grip on his arms was any indication, he was in trouble.

“You can’t? You _can’t_? Fine. Fuck off then. _Leave_ your friend—toss her aside in her hour of _need_ ,” she waved her hand dramatically, before she winked at him and left. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes but a slight jostling from the man behind him brought him back to the present.

“I told you not a word.” The man shoved Quentin on towards the tree line.

“I got rid of her didn’t—”

“Don’t make this worse on yourself,” the man handling him shifted and started pulling him towards the trees. 

He had to do something before they made it to the forest. He needed to say something, do anything to try and get out of the situation. 

The moment they rounded the first broad oak, he shoved Quentin up against it. He pushed his forearm against Quentin’s chest and muffled his mouth with a hand. There was a crunch of leaves and twigs, and Quentin could feel the man press his hips against his own, pinning him in place. He squirmed, trying to fight back, but the man that held him was too strong, too solid. Quentin moaned against the hand over his mouth, drawing out a dark chuckle from the man holding him down. 

“Don’t think I haven’t been counting every syllable and thinking of all the ways you’ll pay for them,” the voice said, forewarning dripping from every word, “I think I can forgive half your failures if you wear this.”

Quentin gasped as a forceful spell grabbed his wrists and held them back, against the sides of the tree. The man's hands were opening his pants, pulling out his partially erect cock.

“Enjoying yourself?”

He roughly locked him into— _oh_ , it was a _new_ one. He’d worn each cock ring in Eliot’s collection multiple times, and never this one: pink, ribbed and rubbery, bent to probe his taint. He probably got it just for him, just for this occasion. 

Fucking hell, he was falling out of it, and just from being handled. Quentin vaguely remembered fingering himself open in the shower that morning. It felt like a lifetime away, but the feeling of knowing his obedience was about to be rewarded sent an electric jolt through his entire body.

He tried to pull himself back into it, “I don’t under— _shit_!”

The new one vibrated. God, he was so good to him. So good. So good. So good. He was— _fuck_. 

“Hm, well, we’ll have to add that back on, won’t we?” As his boxers and jeans were returned to their proper place, the added restriction seemed equal parts cruel and provocative.

Then the invisible bonds around his wrists disappeared, and a hand grasped his arm to tug him along once more. Quentin felt ice in his veins, suddenly, as he noticed the shimmering outline of the portal a few paces away. Whatever his nebulous thoughts had been supplying as dark eventualities, being dragged away from the safety net of the campus wards had not factored into the picture. It was a welcome reminder of what they were doing.

“Where are you taking me?” Quentin’s tongue was dry in his mouth; it made the words stick to his throat as he choked them out. He knew it made him sound small and pathetic.

“Somewhere no one will hear your screams for help,” the voice whispered against the shell of his ear. The man pushed him roughly, and he fell forward into the portal. 

He landed on all fours in a dingy alleyway that smelled like rotting garbage. Two black leather shoes stepped into his line of vision.

“Get up now,” the same voice instructed him, boredom obvious in his tone, as if Quentin had tripped of his own accord, instead of being shoved. 

Quentin stood and wiped the dirt off his jeans before looking up. 

“Holy shit,” Quentin said under his breath. Of course Eliot had gone beyond what Quentin was picturing underneath the invisibility spell. 

His hair was pushed forward so the curls fell over his eyes—mysterious and sexy. His heavy black eyeliner was rimmed with the tiniest bit of gold—dark and promising. His black trench coat was sleek and expensive looking—fine and untouchable. His grey linen vest and pants underneath were cut close to his form—gorgeous and deliciously, damningly tight.

Quentin, in nothing more than his baggy jeans and faded black t-shirt, was shamefully underdressed. Eliot tilted Quentin’s chin up with a single finger, polished with shiny black, and gave him a knowing smile. 

“Enough of that,” Eliot whispered, and pulled a ball gag out of his trench pocket. Quentin was too preoccupied with reeling himself back into the scene to resist too much as Eliot fit it over his head. 

“That should be twenty more, then,” Eliot said, voice even and steady and cool as he slid zip tie handcuffs around Quentin’s wrists. The plastic pinched his skin as Eliot ripped them tight. 

Quentin tried to speak around the gag. Eliot placed a finger against his own lips to signal Quentin to be quiet and reached into his pocket to pull out a silk blindfold made of the same material as his black and gold paisley tie.

“Twenty-one, for that attempt at a sound.” Eliot gave him one final grin, with all the effortless, sensual, predatory sadism of a practiced dom and an even more practiced actor. Then, it was nothing but blackness, and the sound of Eliot’s breathing.

Resistance was useless as Eliot herded him a little ways down the alley. He heard the sliding door of a van or a truck. He was neatly tucked into a seatbelt. 

The door closed; the engine started; the car lurched forward.

The cock ring kept at its low, insistent pulse around his cock and balls.

* * *

The smell of caramelized meat and sautéed vegetables filled the space. His kidnapper had certainly taken his time making dinner, wherever they were. Now that cooking was done, Quentin could track the distinct scrape of a fork and knife against a plate, and a few contented sighs. Eliot was obviously enjoying his meal.

He’d left Quentin on a plush rug, which was only a few paces from where Quentin could hear him in the kitchen. He’d left Quentin handcuffed. He’d left him blindfolded. He’d left him gagged. The only change was the setting on the vibrator, so it now oscillated from low to moderate in a random, unpredictable pattern. 

The anticipation was killing him more than his knees.

Fabric rustled and a chair scraped against the floor. The sink faucet turned on and Eliot started washing the dishes. Quentin tried to picture it: Eliot, done up and beautiful as he was, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his strong, defined forearms exposed and covered in suds. He might be biting his lip to keep from humming like he normally did cleaning up after a meal. 

Quentin shook his head and groaned in annoyance. Honestly, fuck him and his mind’s ability to create domesticity porn in the middle of a kidnapping scene. 

“Oh, what was that now?” The water stopped and he could hear the snap of a towel. 

In less time than it took him to draw breath, Quentin could _feel_ Eliot standing over him. He tilted his head up automatically. He knew he was the perfect height to take Eliot’s cock when he knelt like this. He knew Eliot loved that—loved how perfectly proportioned they were for each other. 

A single finger traced from his cheekbone down and along his jaw and he shivered. He wished the gag was gone. He wished that he could wipe the saliva that trailed down his chin away, and that he could grasp a pair of Eliot's fingers in his mouth and never let go.

“You still need twenty punishments, don’t you?” Eliot caressed his cheeks with open palms, “You’re so beautiful like this. It’s a shame I have to ruin it.”

Eliot took the ball gag out of his mouth, and Quentin stretched his jaw. 

“Who are you?” Quentin gasped out. 

Eliot slapped him across his cheek. The skin where he’d been struck sang with a bite. Quentin grunted and rolled his shoulders back. 

“You will address me as sir.” Eliot struck him again. The sting of the slap shot straight down his spine and pooled in his balls like gasoline. “That’s two.”

Eliot grabbed his shoulders and yanked him to his feet. Quentin struggled to stay upright between his gelatin legs and his hands still bound in front of him. Eliot half dragged him a few paces away and pushed him down onto a couch. The leather felt cool through his shirt; it was so smooth he had to spread his legs to stop himself from sliding off. 

“Now, don’t you look lovely there.”

“I wouldn’t know, _sir_.”

Eliot growled and grabbed Quentin by his chin. 

“Well then, let me inform you,” Eliot’s voice was low and threatening, “You look splendid. The blindfold is a perfect match for the black leather. You’re breathing hard—from panic I’m sure, now, but soon enough it’ll be from what I plan to do with your body. And who doesn’t like a breathless boy spread out over leather? And this…”

Quentin couldn’t stop himself from yelping as Eliot suddenly pressed his other hand against his restrained erection. Eliot mocked him, “Well, what more do I need for _consent_?”

Eliot rubbed him roughly through his pants and Quentin whimpered as the cock ring moved with his hand. He got a laugh in response; it was a dark and luscious sound and he felt so alive he thought he might burn them both to ash. 

Eliot slid his hand from Quentin’s chin to the back of his neck and leaned in for a soft kiss. “Color?”

“Green, baby,” Quentin gasped with reverence.

Eliot was instantly gone. Quentin could hear him shuffling around the room. Then, without warning, he was flipped sideways, his back against the seat. His belt was gone. His pants and boxers were yanked down to his knees. The handcuffs were pinned over his head, as if glued to the armrest.

Fuck, he _loved_ when Eliot used his magic on him. 

The vibration setting changed again to a deeper, slower, constant throb. Quentin arched his back against it and moaned.

“And it’s not going to stop,” Eliot said, “Now. What about the rest, hm?”

Quentin involuntarily shivered. Something sharp snapped against his bare thigh. A crop, or a— _thwack_ —or a baton— _thwack_ —or a—oh _god_ , he was running the tip of it up the side of his cock, teasing him. It was a crop, it had to be, the way the tip seemed to bend with the pressure. Another sharp sting across his other thigh, closer to his knee. 

God, he could just imagine how a crop— _thwack_ —in Eliot’s hands would look above him. _Thwack_. His heavy makeup accenting how dark his eyes would get. _Thwack_. The way his lip would curl with each flick of his wrist. _Thwack_. It kept coming and burning and he couldn’t help but moan every time the leather tip bit into his skin, quick and sharp, in contrast to the slow, steady pulse vibrating around his erection.

“I believe that completes your just punishment,” Eliot’s voice sounded flat, disappointed. 

Quentin allowed himself to let go of the breath he was holding with a shuddering groan.

 _Thwack_! Quentin shouted; it was easily the harshest lash he’d ever received from Eliot’s hand. Arousal washed over his body like purifying acid.

“I lied,” dark pleasure laced Eliot’s words, ”That completes it.” 

Eliot stroked Quentin’s still blindfolded face with the tip of the crop. “The red welts do wonders for the aesthetic. You look even better now, sprawled over my sofa. Like you were meant to live confined here, with my brands on you. You should see yourself.”

He tried to shift his hips, but the firm power of Eliot's magic held him in place. Quentin tried to calm his pounding heart, but he could sense Eliot looming, waiting for whatever sensation was next for him to inflict upon him. Quentin liked his dry, chapped lips. 

“Why?” Quentin asked.

“Why what, my pet?”

“Why are you, why did…?”

“Because I wanted. And I can. The simplest reasons anyone does anything,” Eliot swirled the crop over his neck, across his heaving chest, “And do you know what else I can do, and will do, because I want to?”

“Sir?”

Quentin’s entire body shot into the air and spun. Eliot could do anything he wanted to him. 

Anything. 

_Anything_. 

Anything. 

Telekinesis maneuvered Quentin so he was kneeling on the sofa seat and bent forward over the back of the couch. The magic held his arms straight out, suspended in the air by the handcuffs. His legs were spread as wide as his pants would allow; the waistband bit into his thighs; the seams stretched so tight, it felt like they were going to rip. 

Fuck, some of the tension from the waistband was pulled right across where Eliot had marked him. 

_Fuck_.

His ass was exposed and accessible. The telekinesis nudged his knees a little wider, and the seams gave way. The sound of ripping fabric sent a sick thrill through his system. 

His kidnapper meant what he said: he was going to take exactly what he wanted, however he wanted.

“Fuck,” he groaned out. Fuck, this was it. This was it. Fuck. His captor was going to fuck him—fuck him—fuck him— 

_Fuck_.

“Yes, I think you know what’s coming next.” One hand groped his ass possessively; the edge of the crop stroked down his side; the cock ring kept _pulsing, pulsing, pulsing_ , never relenting.

Quentin couldn’t stop himself from shaking. This man—whoever he was—was going to violate him in a way that could never be undone. Take his body; use his flesh. God, there was no getting out. 

“Your body is incredible,” the crop bit into his ass and Quentin keened. 

“Please, _please_ , you said. You said…”

“Oh, your _punishment_?” He punctuated each word with another perverse, taunting caress from the crop, “Your punishment is done, yes. But all that means is I get to play with my new toy now.” 

Magic held him pinned against the sofa. It held his fingers still. He tried physically pushing against it, but there was nothing he could do. The man laughed at him again, as if he could sense Quentin’s useless struggle. 

“How many more should I give you?”

The crop swirled over his backside, between his ass cheeks, pushed his shirt up to expose a little more of his back.

“I think...three.”

The crop slapped against one exposed ass cheek as hard as the final lash across his thigh. He bit his lip against the first strike, the second, the third. He tried desperately to not to give in to the delicious pain. 

The tip of the crop brushed back and forth against where his balls hung between his legs: gentle carasses of leather against delicate skin.

“Each.” The man marked his other cheek with what felt like perfect symmetry. Quentin couldn’t keep the shouts of pain from sneaking out for the second set. 

“And now for my real fun,” his body spasmed at the graze of a finger against his asshole, “Exquisite.”

Quentin whined, and the fingertip circled his center again, pressing harder. His arms felt heavy where they were suspended from the handcuffs. He could smell sweat and musk thick in the air, probably as much from him as his captor. 

He heard a bottle open; a squelch of something.

His mind went blank as one ramrod straight finger shot into him, testing how open he was: hard and fast, just the barest amount of lube. One finger quickly turned into two moving inside of him. 

“What opened you up like this. Do you do this to yourself?”

Three fingers.

“Another man? Someone who loves you? Is careful with you?”

The _spread_ ; the _demand_ on his body; the fingers penetrating him found his prostate and pressed—harder, harder, _harder_ —with each passing stroke. 

“That’s not me,” a hard, broad handed spank made the marks on his ass sing, “Don’t imagine it for a second.” 

Quentin couldn’t stop the sob that started in his chest and pushed its way out his mouth. 

“The things I’m going to use you for.”

“Sir—sir?” He stuttered.

“Oh, your body is so responsive, isn’t it?” 

Quentin heard the tiniest click, and the cock ring hit its highest frequency yet. He tried to constrict his throat around the scream; he tried to stop himself. The sound came out as a stifled whine.

“Let it out. Don’t deny your master his due.”

He gripped the back of Quentin’s head by his hair tangled with the blindfold and yanked his head back. Quentin yelped at the unexpected pain. His body felt stretched in every direction: his back a deep u-shape bending away from the fingers fucking his ass, his upper body pulled back by his hair, his arms held out far in front. 

“You don’t think you’re too good to scream for me, do you? I can take the crop to you again, boy. Don’t think I don’t know how to _make_ you scream for me.”

His body tensed, fighting back against any more sound. He didn’t want to give in. Tears soaked into the blindfold. 

“Do it, you pathetic brat.”

The command spoke to something primal deep inside his gut and the scream of pain and pleasure and fear and desire erupted from him before he knew what was happening. He screamed a second time as fingers scissored inside him. He screamed a third time as he was forced to bend back further, expose his neck more, move entirely under his sir’s command.

The man made a satisfied purr, and let go of his hair. He pet him, from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, soothing over Quentin’s shirt, while he pressed his fingers all the way in and held them still, except for the curling and teasing against his prostate. 

“Well done. Don’t you remember what we discussed?”

The vibrations around his cock shut off and Quentin sighed in relief as the ring was removed. A large, warm hand curled around him and started pumping insistently at his hard cock.

“Your body wants this. Let it happen. You’re aching for me to fuck you, aren’t you?”

His fingers were gone, and Quentin choked out another sob. Firm telekinesis was the only thing stopping him from sinking down onto the couch in relief. 

A belt buckle clinked as it was undone. 

A zipper unzipped.

This was it. This was _it_.

He could hear the slick sound of lube being spread against skin. 

And then, it came: the wet head of a cock pressing against his entrance, testing his rim. 

He whimpered. Quentin couldn’t say if he was pleading for or against what was about to be done to him, just that he was pleading for something.

“You want me to fuck you.”

His captor grabbed his hips in both hands, and— _oh god_ —he rammed in so fast, so hard. He was already bottoming out.

Quentin’s body betrayed him; he could feel his deep need collapsing in on itself, threatening to implode; his body simultaneously begging for release and wailing at the intense penetration. 

“Say it.”

“No,” he whispered, then cried out in ecstasy. The stretch to accommodate the man’s cock was the best thing he’d ever felt, and it was horrifying. His kidnapper canted and hit him directly where he needed him. He couldn’t suppress the shivers of pleasure no matter how much it repulsed him. 

“Say it.”

The pace was pushing him towards the edge of release. He wanted it. He wanted to chase it over the ledge and let the man fucking him have everything. He could worship the cock inside him for how it moved in him. He could live on this couch, half naked in his shredded clothing, if it meant having this cock inside him.

“No,” he resisted. But he wanted—he did.

“Your body wants this,” the man spanked his swollen, marked ass as he rammed in hard, then harder again, “Say it.”

The pleasure coursed down his every nerve ending.

“No...please...don’t—no...”

It was coming. So close, so close, so close.

“Say it!” he spanked him again, egging him on, ”Fucking say it, bitch.”

His stomach clenched at the command. He had to. He _had_ to.

“Sir, I want—want you to—” was all he could say before his balls spasmed and he spilled everything he had across the leather couch.

“What was that?” Oh god, he wasn’t stopping. Quentin tried to move away but the man just kept his pace, the magic still pinned him in place. 

“Want—” oh, he was too sensitive, too tight, too everything.

“Say it!”

“Fuck me!” 

The man fucking him growled and obliged. 

Quentin trembled. His entire body screamed against what was demanded of it. It was too much, too much, too much. Telekinesis rolled over his body like a million wandering hands; it held him firmly in place like a doll exclusively for the man’s use. Invisible magic gripped his depleted cock, coaxing a whine and a sob and another scream out of him. 

His master swore and he felt the rush of come spilling into his body. 

* * *

Eliot was massaging his scalp. He knew it was Eliot because he felt warm, and languid, and every muscle in his body felt relaxed and perfect and loved. 

He blinked his eyes open. Their vacation rental for the weekend appeared as lavish as Eliot had promised. The bedroom had an entire wall of windows looking out at the last deep purple smudges of a sunset over a forest. He was spread out on the softest bedding he’d ever felt in his life. He was wearing one of his favorite plush grey robes Eliot always insisted on for his aftercare. Eliot sat cross legged, leaning back against the tufted headboard, with his head in his lap. Eliot was smiling at him fondly; he kept his fingertips moving gently, methodically through his hair; no rush, no hurry. 

“Hey,” Quentin swallowed and cleared his throat, “How’re you feeling, baby?”

“Hm, you know that’s not how this goes,” Eliot curled in on top of him and brushed their lips together, “But I’m good, sweet boy. You’re all lotioned up. I double checked: no broken skin. You were so good, _so_ good sweetheart. Now, how are you feeling?”

Quentin reached up and tugged on Eliot’s hair, “Amazing. _You_ were just—fucking amazing. That suit...fuck, Eliot.”

Eliot smiled and kissed him on his forehead.

“Come cuddle me.”

Eliot handed him a bottle of gatorade first; then fed him some decadent truffles. He moved aside to replace his lap with a pillow under Quentin’s head. He fussed with Quentin’s robe, making sure it was secure, while his own silk one fell open, revealing his naked body underneath.

“Eliot,” Quentin whined and grabbed his hand with a gentle pull.

“Alright, I’m here, I’m here,” Eliot joined him laying down. He curled around Quentin; slid a leg between his, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, nestled Quentin’s head underneath his chin, “That better?”

“Always better with you.”

“Good. I’ve got dinner on the table for you; spell’s keeping it warm and fresh.”

“Not yet,” Quentin rubbed his nose against Eliot’s chest and sighed, content. 

They lay in silence for a few minutes, Eliot periodically leaning in closer to kiss the top of his head, the edge of his ear, his brow. Eliot twined their hands together and kissed each of Quentin’s knuckles, slowly and precisely.

“Darling,” Eliot whispered, “You’re so perfect. You were incredible; really, you were so good, the whole time. So perfect.”

“Mm. It was good. Better than I expected. And, I thought it was gonna be just— _insanely_ good,” Quentin pressed his face into Eliot’s neck and kissed his clavicle, “We should do that again—I dunno, like, at least semi-annually.”

Eliot laughed, and stroked Quentin’s hair to the side so he could look clearly into his eyes, “Don’t tempt me unless you mean it, sweetheart.”

“Love you, El,” Quentin lifted his chin to kiss him on the lips. It was a slow, easy, sloppy kiss that gentled them both; gave them both a chance to remember each other with softness and ease. 


End file.
